This would be my life.
I think of the pile of stones we had to leave behind in the mountains. I remember the feeling of my sister’s body cradled in my arms, of myself sobbing into her frozen hair, telling her over and over again that I am sorry, begging her not to leave me.
If I give my powers to the goddess of Death, if we all do, then perhaps, just perhaps, she will return my sister to me. Violetta might live again; perhaps we will all walk out of here. The possibility is fleeting, but it is there and it sends a shudder of wild hope through me. She might live. I can, at least, undo this one wrong. I can fix what I have broken between us.
And I can save myself.
Slowly, I rise to my feet. I am still afraid, but I lift my head high. The whispers in my head suddenly start to howl. They call to me, begging me not to leave them, hissing at me for my betrayal. What are you doing! they scream. Have you forgotten? Your father’s hands, beating at you—your enemies, laughing at you? The burning stake? This is life without power.
I stand firm against their onslaught. No, that is not my life without power. My life without power will be one of walking through a crowd without darkness tugging at my heart. It will be seeing Violetta in the living world, smiling again. It will be riding on the back of a horse with Magiano as we crest another mountain, searching for adventure. It will be a life without these whispers in my head. It will be a life without my father’s ghost.
It will be a life.
I look at Moritas. Then I reach deep within myself, grasp the threads that have entwined themselves around my heart since I was a child. I pull them away. And I relinquish them.
The whispers shriek.
At the same time, I see—somehow, I see—the others do the same. I see Magiano offering his power of mimicry to the immortal world; I see Raffaele sacrificing his connection; I see Lucent returning her mastery of wind; I see Maeve give up her right to the Underworld.
The world around me erupts. The power of it throws me to the ground. I suck in my breath and scream at the pain of my power being wrenched away from me. Darkness swirls—and the whispers are suddenly deafening. They scream in my ears, their pain my own. I curl in on myself in defense.
Then—all of a sudden—they are gone. The whispers that have haunted me for so long. Every word, every hiss, every claw. Every tendril of darkness that wrapped itself in the corners of my chest.
Gone.
A piercing sensation, one of fury and grief and joy, fills my heart, replacing the hollow. I reach, but there is nothing on the other end. No threads to grasp. I am no longer an Elite.
Go, Moritas says, the other gods’ voices echoing hers. Return to the mortal world with the others. You do not yet belong here.
I clutch my chest, overwhelmed at the emptiness in my heart. We are going home.
Then I see, across the shattered remains of the darkened pillar, the figure of my sister. Violetta. She is still encased in her opalescent tomb, her face peaceful in death, her arms folded across her chest. She hovers there before me. I reach out for her. I look for her to stir back to life.
But Violetta does not wake. My eagerness wavers. In this overwhelming silence, I wait desperately for her to open her eyes.
Moritas looks at me again. I can barely see her through the black, churning mist.
Your time in the Underworld has not come, Adelina, she says. In giving up your power, I offer you your life back. She turns to Violetta. But her time in the mortal world is past.
My elation fades. Violetta has already died. Moritas will not give up her soul. She will not return to the surface with us.
“Please,” I whisper, turning back to the goddess. “There must be something I can do.”
Moritas stares down at me with her silent black eyes. A soul must be replaced with a soul.
In order for Violetta to live, I must sacrifice something that does not give myself gain.
In order for Violetta to live, I must give Moritas my life.
No. I pull away, stumbling backward. All these things I have seen for my future, all that I can have. I think of Magiano, of laughing with him, of him smiling at me and pulling me close. Never will I do that again, if I give up my soul. Never will I walk the streets with my hand looped through his arm or hear the music of his lute. My heart twists in agony. I will not see another sunrise, or another sunset. I will not see the stars again, or feel the wind against my face.
I shake my head. I cannot take my sister’s place.
And yet.
I find myself staring at Violetta’s lifeless figure, forever sealed away. I know, with searing conviction, that the Violetta who had come with us on this journey would never hesitate to offer her life for mine.
I have killed and hurt. I have conquered and pillaged. I have done all of this in the name of my own desires, have done everything in life because of my own selfishness. I have always taken what I wanted, and it has never given me happiness. If I return to the surface, alone, I will forever remember this moment, the moment I decided to choose my own life over my sister’s. It will haunt me, even with Magiano at my side, until my death. What I saw for myself in my future is a future I cannot have, not with the past that I have already created. It is an illusion. Nothing more.
Perhaps, after all the lives I have taken, my atonement is to restore life to one.
I reach out instinctively for my sister. I stand up, walk toward her through the mist, and place my hand against the silver-white pillar.
She opens her eyes.
“Adelina?” she whispers, blinking. And all I can see before me is the little sister who used to braid my hair, who sang to me and whimpered under the stairs, who bandaged my broken finger and came to me when the thunder rolled outside. She is my sister, always, even in death, even beyond.